Great rich handstrokes, the both of us. My signature curved on the
page like staccato ocean waves of an angry sea, and his was big, flowing
and luxurious, like he was wrapping a Lexus in the motion and he probably
was. The transaction cost me $595 and it was over in 12 minutes. He shook
my hand as an afterthought and left. He hadnít shaved or worn any nice
clothes.

So this was it, the triumph of 12 years of resistance, deviance, study,
debauchery, designer drugs, European beers, furl in my brow, hot sex, closing
myself in and finally making dull realizations that nevertheless boosted
my spirits: I owned an apartment.

I remember marching down the main streets in a spring mist, convening
on the legislature and being let down by the PhD on the megaphone: ďWhat
do we want? Change! When do we want it? Now!Ē The man had written smart
books; Iíd skimmed a few. But in his politician position he was reduced
to this, and they loved it.

One year there was a pivotal music show. I wonít say who it was for
fear of name-dropping, but youíve heard of them even if you donít like
the music. It was a good show. Not spectacular. I followed my friend through
packed tables, pissy pints in hand, and he spoke softly to his friends
along the wall. He didnít introduce me but that was fine. Not every experience
should be living room, and sometimes itís best to be the quiet stranger
in the dark.

I saw this day coming out from the fog over Halifax last spring. Itís
not a bad day at all, understand, but itís a day that makes you think about
other days. I was looking over the Atlantic Ocean, my first time, and my
cousin was running out over the rocks. It was a meaningless day. I tried
to understand why past silliness had not registered this way, and all I
got was a flurry of flash-reminisces that didnít add up: the day I had
two girls; my friend Jorge, who did not get a single girl in those five
and one-half years, and only because he wouldnít commit himself; to eating
cheese and onion sandwiches on benches alone in London and walking through
local markets that had become foreign because of tourists; to my first
ďrealĒ job, earning $13.91 an hour and feeling so overjoyed for such a
short period of time: it didnít add up.

That autumn I scraped the sum parts of my life into a bowl and swished
them around. There wasnít much to see. People were falling into pairs and
I was worried because we never had so much fun as when we only had two
or three hours to have it.

With the birth of my best friendís kid I realized the tragedy was the
lack of change: he was exactly the same. We build ourselves to this image
of sameness without knowing it, and we follow that person forever because
we donít know where else to go.

So (wearily), the kids of the world grow into pairs and create black
unions against golden backdrops on the curving plastic road that winds
forever toward the horizon but is never flat, not for a stretch and the
choruses and happy families drown one another out until the meaning of
one minute is the Tyco toy, the thing in its base: rigid primary colour
plastic block vroom.

Vroooom.

And the lonely man walks between the black ink walls and he looks up
on either side. Things move so fast. Above the sky is blue or crimson or
whatever he imagines, and the walls are rock (no gems), and the warm muddy
water rushes fast through his legs, and the hike is pleasant as long as
youíve got a good walking stick and you can find high ground every once
in a while.